Light footsteps approached across the stone floor.
Lex turned as Firefox emerged from the shadows, barefoot, her movements silent and deliberate. The glow of the treatment pool reflected off her skin as she stopped a few feet away, studying him with that same cool, unreadable expression she wore in combat.
Without breaking eye contact, she let her jacket fall. Then her holster. Then the rest.
She stepped into the basin with the slow confidence of someone fully aware of the effect she carried, submerging herself in the fading green solution. The liquid rippled around them.
No words were exchanged.
The tension was strategic, not sentimental.
She closed the distance first.
What followed was controlled heat—measured, exploratory, neither of them surrendering awareness despite the intimacy. Firefox tested him the way she tested opponents: probing for weakness, gauging breathing patterns, monitoring reaction time. Lex understood immediately.
This wasn't seduction.
It was reconnaissance.
He allowed the illusion of distraction.
Inside the administrative office above the chamber, the Pharmacist leaned toward Sloan.
"Firefox has engaged him," he said quietly. "If he relaxes his guard…"
He made a subtle slicing motion across his throat.
Sloan didn't look up immediately. His attention remained fixed on the three syringes of antitoxin resting on the desk.
"Kill him?" Sloan finally asked, voice flat.
He lifted his eyes.
"What do you imagine happens after you assassinate a man who controls both a Bat-class mech and an Iron Man–derived platform… and who can manufacture immunity to the zombie virus?"
The Pharmacist hesitated.
"You suspect he's affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"Affiliation is irrelevant," Sloan replied. "Influence is what matters. Men like that destabilize institutions."
He steepled his fingers.
"We cannot afford open conflict."
After a moment, he added, "If his sole objective is treatment fluid, satisfy it. Extract the remaining antitoxin before he departs."
The Pharmacist nodded.
Sloan slid one syringe across the desk.
"Reverse-engineer it."
"If we replicate production, we control the market."
"Understood."
Down below, the water eventually stilled.
Night passed.
Before dawn, an explosion shattered the fragile calm.
The Loom Factory's newly reinforced gates buckled inward as a garbage truck smashed through. Gunfire erupted almost instantly.
Firefox rolled out of bed, already alert, grabbing her custom M1911 without bothering to dress fully.
Lex moved to the window.
The truck's rear container tipped.
Thousands of rats poured out in a living wave—each one fitted with micro-explosives.
Rat bombs.
Lex immediately understood.
Carlos.
Wesley remained locked in the yard cage. The Loom had taken his son.
Carlos responded the only way a master assassin would: overwhelming asymmetrical retaliation.
Explosions began detonating throughout the structure—walls collapsing, support beams fracturing, hidden trap systems misfiring under shockwave pressure.
The Loom's defenses were built against infiltration.
Not saturation bombing via rodents.
Carlos did not move toward Wesley.
That would draw fire to him.
Instead, he entered from the rear flank and began systematically eliminating personnel. His Heartbeat Acceleration—an ability Lex recognized intimately—allowed him to chain movements faster than conventional perception.
Gunfire. Blades. Silence.
One by one, core operatives fell.
The Butcher.
The Exterminator.
Split-Mouth.
The courtyard ran red before sunrise.
Lex remained uninvolved.
His objectives were already complete. Further engagement risked unnecessary complication.
As the structure's integrity deteriorated, he quietly accessed remaining treatment reserves and extracted any residual Dionysian compound.
Then, during the height of chaos, he cut Wesley free.
By dawn, Carlos disengaged voluntarily, vanishing into the city after inflicting catastrophic losses.
The Loom was crippled.
Four core members survived: Sloan, Firefox, the Pharmacist, and the Repairman. Fewer than a dozen assassins remained standing, many severely wounded.
"This is all that's left," the Pharmacist muttered grimly.
Sloan surveyed the devastation.
"Apply treatment fluid to the injured," he ordered.
Firefox returned from searching.
"Lex is gone."
"Gone?" Sloan snapped. "He still owes us seven doses."
The Repairman hesitated. "I saw him free Wesley."
Sloan's jaw tightened.
Before he could respond, the Pharmacist rushed in, pale.
"The treatment fluid—it's ineffective."
Silence.
"What did you say?"
"It's inert. Whatever he did—its regenerative properties are gone."
Sloan's composure fractured.
"Find him," he ordered coldly. "Search everywhere. I want him located."
But Lex was already miles away.
He had parked his Ferrari along a deserted stretch of road when a black Hummer skidded to a halt across from him.
Carlos stepped out, shotgun raised.
He looked exhausted. Blood stained his sleeve. His breathing was controlled but heavy—he'd pushed Heartbeat Acceleration beyond safe thresholds.
Lex didn't move.
Instead, he curved a bullet around the Hummer's frame, eliminating a zombie creeping up behind Carlos.
The demonstration was deliberate.
Carlos' eyes narrowed.
"You're not Loom," he said. "I would know."
"I made a transaction," Lex replied calmly.
He cut Wesley's restraints and tossed him forward.
"Catch."
Carlos pulled his son into the vehicle.
After a brief pause, he looked back at Lex.
"I owe you."
Then he drove off.
A seed planted.
Lex remained for a moment, watching the road empty again.
New York awaited.
He drove through borough after borough. The city was silent except for the undead. Skyscrapers stood like monuments to abandonment.
If Gotham was fractured, New York was hollowed.
But hollow spaces could be refilled.
After two hours of reconnaissance, he stopped at a convenience store.
Three employee zombies were visible through the window.
He entered carefully, activating Heartbeat Acceleration.
His pulse surged.
Time stretched.
A fly hovered midair, wings vibrating in near stillness.
Three shots rang out.
Three clean headshots.
Then he sensed movement from the restroom.
A white filament shot toward him.
He sidestepped effortlessly.
Webbing.
The bathroom door tore free and hurtled at him.
He shattered it midair and returned fire.
A red-and-blue figure launched outward.
Peter Parker.
No mask.
Pale skin.
Dead eyes.
The shopping bag still clutched in one hand.
He must have locked himself inside after realizing infection had begun.
Even zombified, his reflexes were monstrous.
Spider-sense and enhanced agility allowed him to weave through bullets in confined space.
Lex emptied his magazine.
Nothing connected.
Peter lunged.
Lex tossed the empty pistol and deployed the Bat Mech mid-impact.
Peter slammed him into the wall and bit down.
Metal met teeth.
A frustrated snarl followed.
Lex palm-struck him through the storefront, sending him skidding into the street.
By the time Lex took flight, Spider-Man had vanished.
Slippery.
Fast.
Adaptive.
Lex hovered briefly above the ruined intersection.
He smiled.
New York wasn't empty.
It was layered.
And somewhere in those layers, opportunity waited.
If he could subdue Spider-Man properly next time…
Spider-derived enhancements would integrate beautifully.
....
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